


Maybe

by applecameron



Category: Inception (2010)
Genre: Canon Compliant, Canonical Character Death, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-27
Updated: 2017-02-27
Packaged: 2018-09-27 08:55:24
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 749
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9991904
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/applecameron/pseuds/applecameron





	

They lay together for a long time after Miles’ call, Arthur cradling Eames against his own chest, not stopping petting his hair gently even after the tears ease.  There’s broken glass in the kitchen.  He can clean it up later.

Jesus.  _Mal_. His vision blurs.

Finally: “We could go,” Arthur offers.

“No.”  Eames voice is harsh, too loud, as if he’s a room away.  

Arthur pets some more, then curls his fingers around Eames’s ear.  “Are you sure?”

“Just, no.”

“OK.”

It’s maybe an hour later when Eames thinks to ask, “Will Dom be there?”  He pulls away from Arthur, into a sitting position on the couch, looking rumpled and sick in his gym clothes.  He hadn’t even taken a shower after his workout.  Got blindsided by death instead.  Arthur can smell the sharp odor of exertion drying on him.  Eames scrubs at his face, making himself look worse but more alert, somehow.

Arthur drops his elbows to his knees, looks down. Shakes his head.  “He fled the scene.”

“Bastard.”  With feeling.

“He didn’t push her, Eames.”  Arthur can feel his own voice growing sharp.  “You can’t believe that.”

Eames rises in jerky, angry motions, pulls his shirt over his head, revealing the lines of a tattoo in progress.  “Fuck him.  He didn’t stop her.  That’s enough for me.”  He makes for the kitchen with the shirt dangling from one hand and Arthur doesn’t think of the glass in time -

“Fuuuuuck!”  Eames shouts, hopping on one foot.  “God _dammit_ , Arthur!”

“Oh, shit. Shit.”  Arthur hurries to help, off balance, inside and out.

Eames shoves him down, unable to not pick a fight in his pain.  “Fuck you.  Fuck you!  This is your goddamn fault!”

Arthur closes his eyes, feels Eames step over him.  

“I’m going to take a shower.”

When Arthur opens his eyes, he can see a little spot of blood on the floor from Eames’ foot.  He wipes at his eyes and then spends Eames’ shower searching out each spot and eliminating it, sweeping up the broken water glass from the kitchen floor and then mopping.  He’s done about the time he hears the water turn off.

Eames moves around in the bedroom for awhile before he emerges, re-dressed and a little calmer, and watches Arthur put away the cleaning supplies, then pull out the kettle for tea.

“I’ll make it.”  Gruffly.

“Sure.”  Arthur cedes the kitchen to him.

They don’t speak, Arthur leaning against the counter, Eames hyper focused on the ritual of tea.  Warm the pot, he’d always instructed.  Don’t you have a tea cozy, Arthur?  What kind of barbarian are you?  It's Eames’ brown betty on Arthur’s counter, but he hasn’t thought of things as being Eames’ or his in ages.

But Mal had always belonged to Eames first.  Making new dream theory, spinning out research topics by the truckload, whenever they were together.  As Mal’s chief dogsbody and therefore first victim for their ideas, they’d driven Arthur mad fairly regularly.  

Arthur was a plodding nobody, really, a French-speaking statistician Mal had scooped up at the start, or, as Eames had put it, a number-cruncher with a fantastic arse, darling, do tell me you’re free for drinks and a shag, later, won’t you?  And then their ship had wrecked on her abrupt marriage to Dom.  _He’s an idiot.  Why the fuck is she marrying an idiot, Arthur, it makes no sense_.  _So fucking full of himself.  A woman like that.  He’s beneath her._ Arthur had stayed with Eames.  Mal had gone to Southern California.  _That plastic soulless pit of a place_ , Eames called it.

Now the soulless pit had eaten her.

Eames doesn’t talk until after he’s done with a cup.  “Do you _want_ to go?”

Arthur sighs and brings his own cup to rest, gently, in its saucer, the floral pattern taunting him with its promise of cozy homes where death doesn’t intrude save in pages of Agatha Christie novels.  “Miles might appreciate the support. I could go alone.”

Eames frowns into his teacup.

* * *

If he’d known the favor Miles would ask, he wouldn’t have gotten on the plane.

* * *

After two years, one painful breakup, and half a reconciliation later, Arthur boards another plane, to attempt the impossible.

Later, he thinks it might actually happen, when Eames catches his eye as they disembark and smiles like he means it, like he’s done prodding and might actually drink a cup of tea if Arthur lets him make it for them.  

It might actually happen.


End file.
